


FUBAR to the rescue

by hupsoonheng



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Coitus Interruptus, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sort of anyway, Spitroasting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: some days, bucky needs more than what his best furry friend can provide. sometimes he needs all the himself wrung out of him, by the people who understand him most. -the fabulous yawpkatsi on tumblr has been churning out this amazing au with bucky's service dog, FUBAR! i've been really charmed by it, and been having a lot of fun talking to her besides, so here's a little gift inspired by one of her posts. this is meant to be funny at the end at least lmao





	

**Author's Note:**

> lmao [this](http://yawpkatsi.tumblr.com/post/150772851527/so-i-just-found-your-fubar-stuff-and-i-love-it) is the post that inspired me earlier today, although ironically there's no actual mention of just all caps, which makes sense bc it'd be a much longer and kind of tedious post just listing all the different combinations of sam, nat and steve with bucky being interrupted by a dog. HOPE YOU LIKE THIS LISA

You discovered, early in the days of FUBAR becoming part of your life, that dog hair—particularly coming from whatever Armenian mountain breed he's supposed to be—is basically impossible to get off your clothes and furniture in time for anyone you like to come over. You discovered a little later that most of them don't really care, although part of that is FUBAR's pure charm. 

It's been a year since you've been granted amnesty, and six months since you got FUBAR the service dog. 

The amnesty is highly conditional. You're not allowed to leave the tri-state area, which is more generous than you could have hoped for. What it means is you're allowed to leave Jersey City, take the PATH into Manhattan if you feel like visiting Steve or Sam or Natasha. You have other people you know, technically, but these are the only ones you interact with on a regular basis. Anymore than that is overwhelming, just like New York itself has become, which is why you're happier living across the river in New Jersey. You don't live that far from the Grove Street station, anyway. 

FUBAR, on the other hand, has no conditions for you. He's enormous, with long, soft hair and a big face that goes _snoof_ whenever you present him with something new to investigate. He's trained to keep you feeling safe, grounded, never alone, without all the pressures that come from human companionship. Not that you don't love your humans—your people—fuck, your _friends_ , get it together Bucko—but sometimes love isn't enough to overcome your shitty brain. That's when FUBAR is there, a strong and warm presence you can wrap your arms around and bury your face in. No expectations, no patience to test, no questions asked. 

Yes, you named him that. Yes, you think it's funny. A good in-joke just for you and the other people you know as war-torn inside and out as you. 

You've been having a lot of good days, lately. A lot of days where you function just fine, where FUBAR trots at a reasonable distance ahead of you with a grocery bag gripped between his teeth, where you sleep through the night with only one hand touching his furry back. Days where you get to the gym without him, get a good workout in, even on your stump side, and you feel the eyes on you but you don't let yourself think about them. 

Today's not one of those days. 

And today's not a day FUBAR can help you with, either. 

Not that you can explain it to him, of course. He's a dog, for crying out loud. Not just a dog—a dog with a job. From the moment you wake up he can feel how twisted up you feel, like it's some kind of aura only he can see, and he's there instantly, pushing his nose and then his whole giant head under your arm. You try to calm down with him, because that's what he's for, that's what would make _him_ happy, too, and you love your fucking dog, but you already know it's not going to work. Your body is heavy and buzzing at the same time, and there's usually only one solution to when you feel like this. 

FUBAR follows close to enough to almost clip your heels as you leave your bedroom, although he's too well-trained to ever actually step on you. You never remember where you leave your phone. Phones in the modern era are still fucking weird to you, barely anything close to what would have constituted a phone when you were a strapping young man and not—whatever you are now. Your mother, God rest her soul, would have never recognized the rectangle you unearth from the couch cushions as a phone, anyway. 

Sam. You need Sam, first. The kind of guilt that's building up in your brain like gas in a rotting body is the kind that needs Sam's presence. Not because Sam is some kind of—some kind of tool to alleviate your stupid fucking problems, Jesus, what a bad thought to have even in passing—but because it's something Sam will understand and Steve won't, and Nat won't, and definitely the dog won't. 

Steve. You text Steve, too, because he's just stronger than Sam, and you need some of that, today. 

You think about texting Nat. But you looked on Facebook. She's having a bad day, too. You can't be selfish. Instead you just send her her favorite emojis and a new photo of FUBAR. She likes those. 

In the hour it takes for them to arrive—because of course they would have rendezvoused first, like coming to Jersey is a mission, so they arrive together—FUBAR pushes you into the kitchen, gets the fridge open. _Eat._ He doesn't let up until you do, watches you pour almond milk over peanut butter puff cereal that doesn't have any nutrition but at least it's _something_. Decades of being fed intravenously tend to dull the instinct to feed oneself. (That and depression, probably, but you'd rather just eat your cereal on the couch than think about that any deeper.) 

FUBAR bounces as you open the door to Sam and Steve, although he's good enough not to bark. You can't deal with much more than his weird little _boof_ sounds, and even that's too much on days where a meltdown is a twitch away. Both men put their hands on you immediately, palms sliding up and down your back, and that takes at least a little bit of the edge off. But just a shred. 

"Hey, boy," Sam says, taking a knee to ruffle FUBAR's ears while you lock the door. Steve moves further into the apartment while FUBAR snuffs Sam's arms. "You think you can sit out here for a while?" 

Not that the dog knows what Sam's saying. There's a kind of blanket of quiet anxiety hanging over the whole apartment, and it makes the dog whine as Sam gets to his feet. He starts to follow Sam to the bedroom, where Steve already is and you're headed yourself, and Sam turns to FUBAR. "Stay," he says, because when Sam's around, FUBAR listens better to him than to his own handler. So the giant dog obeys and sits his huge furry butt down, but he doesn't look thrilled about it. He lays all the way down, shuffling his front paws under his chin as he watches all three of you disappear into the bedroom. Then you close the door, and that's that. 

You already told both of them what it was you wanted, what you needed, when you texted them to ask them over. So instead of you having to tell them, with embarrassing words, they just silently get to work. 

You're naked first. You're always naked first, when it's like this. Your body is getting soft on the outside with your new life, even with the strength that stays whether you like it or not, and Steve takes his own moment to trace fingers over the little pudge of your lower belly. But that's not what he's here for. 

Steve and Sam press you between them, with Steve behind you and Sam in front. Sometimes Steve makes you cry more than Sam. Today, it's Sam, and as he kisses your neck you think about how you tried to kill him, you didn't know _you didn't know_ but you tried to kill him, and now he's here being beautiful in your bed when he has the right to try to kill you back. Some of those thoughts slip out on your ragged breath, and Sam bites at your neck. 

"I'm not gonna kill you," he says into your skin. "I don't want to." 

"Then let me—" you beg him, without even finishing your sentence. That was part of your text, too, texts you deleted after you sent them but still live in all their humiliating glory on their phones. 

Sam doesn't let you anything, though, not yet, because if you're going to get your wish then Steve has some work to do, first. He's always more tender than you want him to be, always has that attachment to the man he used to know that looks just like you, and he rubs his hands up and down your lower back before he starts. But you arch your back, push your face into your sheets to emphasize what Steve needs to do, and you get your wish. 

You don't let him prep you for too long. It's not what you need. Not what you want. What you need, want, it's all the fucking same, is Steve ramming into you behind until you see stars, with his fingers digging into your hips because they're the only fingers that could bruise you. You need his thighs spreading yours, his hips slapping your ass, his cock driving into you, over and over because he has no limits, even more than you. 

What else you need, what else you want, is Sam's dick down your throat, Sam's fingers tangled in the hair he said you should try cutting sometime but you know you're not ready to cope with what you'll see in the mirror on the other side of that. You need Sam literally fucking your face, you need to glance up and see Sam's face drawn up with the pleasure of your tongue and lips because you can at least give him that. 

What you have to have is both at the same time, Steve behind you and Sam in front of you. You need to be a _thing_ between them, pushed and pulled and _shoved_ and _yanked_ until you don't feel real anymore. In the back of your head you tell yourself you're fucking sick for wanting this, that if you were really getting better or even wanted to get better you'd want loving, sweet, gentle sex with just one of them at a time. One of them _only_ , even, because monogamy is what regular, sane people choose. Not whatever this is. 

Being unreal, though, being just a thing for Sam and Steve to fuck, is what gets you over. Sam comes first, the closest to a regular guy in this room, and he fills your mouth with semen that you're not coordinated enough to swallow, not with the way Steve picks up the pace behind you, so it spills down your chin and jesus, jesus, you shouldn't like that. It's gross, you're gross, but _fuck_ , it makes you come. You spurt straight onto your sheets with a ragged cry, the ones you brought back from the laundromat only yesterday, and everything feels raw. 

You lay your head in the dark cave created by your arm with your ass still in the air, but with Sam out of the running and panting on the other side of the bed, Steve won't let you hide. He flips you over with one easy, too-strong motion, makes you face him and _you didn't want that_ but maybe that's what makes it okay. You told him not to stop, after all. He wipes the cum from your lips with a swipe of his thumb, but at least he doesn't kiss you, because you asked ahead for neither of them to do that, at least not until you were all done. Then the gentleness is over, Steve driving into you with such force the bed makes serious sounds of protest. You're hard again, and it's overwhelming. It didn't used to be like this. In 1940, it wasn't like this. 

You can feel it when he comes inside you, because his orgasms always come with violent twitching of his dick, and you come again, this time on your own body, all the way up to your chin. You might have yelled. You're definitely crying. You didn't mean to cry. You liked it, you promise. 

You look at Sam, who looks like he might be recovered, and you look at Steve, and you wonder if they'd do it again, because you might still have an emotion or two left, and you want to be wrung out, completely. 

Except you finally notice the scratching at the door that's been happening for the past few minutes, and it breaks you out of all your stupid psychosexual self-flagellation happening in your head. Actually, the wood around the hinges is starting to splinter, and that's what you get for having a dog as big as you are to worry about your feelings. 

"Should we let him in?" Steve says, looking sheepish as he cleans off your torso with a dirty T-shirt from the hamper. 

"Well, if the door's gonna survive," you say, while you wad the flat sheet over the semen on the bed itself. Sam is closest to the door, and as soon as he turns the knob and opens the door even an inch, FUBAR blows it open the rest of the way with his massive body. He bounds onto the bed as if he's a missile and you're his target. He paws circles around your lap before settling down, boofing all the way, and you barely save your dick from getting clawed, but FUBAR doesn't know what naked is. He's naked all the damn time, if you don't count the service vest he wears outside. 

Sam laughs as he finishes tugging his joggers back on. Steve gets up as Sam gets back into bed, on a similar quest to have pants on. You're the only one who can't do the same. "Nice pants," Sam says, reaching over to scritch FUBAR's big square forehead. 

"They multitask," you say, giving the dog a big flat pat or three on the back. "They turn into a dog when you're not being a weird piece of shit and yelling where they can hear." 

The bed dips when Steve rejoins you, and now the three of you are all laying back in bed, curled around your giant dog-pants hybrid. While Sam gives head-scritches, Steve gets the back right in front of the tail, and FUBAR wags that tail, but he doesn't move. His handler was upset, after all, and then his handler was a stupid asshole who barred him from doing his job, and now he's here and he won't be stopped from making the bad vibes go away. You stroke your hand over his soft coat, cooing his name. 

"Guess we didn't need to come over after all," Sam says, eyes flicking up to your face. 

"Oh, no, I definitely needed that," you say, looking down at FUBAR. "I just needed this, too." 

You fall asleep like that, four warm bodies in a bed, only woken by FUBAR's insistence that it's lunchtime.

**Author's Note:**

> seriously if you haven't been paying attention to the fubar au [here's the tag](http://yawpkatsi.tumblr.com/tagged/fubar+the+service+dog) on yawpkatsi's blog, it's all so cute and endearing and tender, i love it
> 
> and you can find me on tumblr [here](http://softsams.tumblr.com/) to yell about mcu stuff


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